Gravid
by Blind Author
Summary: Complete. Written for a kinkmeme prompt: girl!John is pregnant during Reichenbach, and the day Sherlock returns to London is actually the day Joan goes into labour...violence, implied sex, medical discussions of pregnancy, Sherlock/Joan
1. Part One

**Rating:** Probably M/15+  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters, and am making no profit from their use (this applies to all chapters).  
**Warnings**: Very medical discussions of pregnancy, also violence and implied sex.

**Gravid**

**Part One**

Joan was never entirely sure how she got back to the hotel. She ran back to the cliff and found Sherlock's coat and scarf abandoned on the rocks with the note (dear god, the _note_). After scraping her throat raw shouting his name (because he couldn't be dead, he just _couldn't_ and _why wasn't he answering her?_), it eventually occurred to her that she needed some kind of search party. Sherlock could be lying injured somewhere, and she couldn't scour Reichenbach Falls and the surrounding mountains all by herself.

The search was called off after a week. An achingly long week in which Joan never truly believed they wouldn't find Sherlock, in which she was convinced he was still alive and at any moment, he'd step out from behind this tree or that rock and ask what they were all so worried about.

When the sun began to set seven days after Joan had stumbled onto the waterfall path to find it deserted, the policeman in charge of the search gently broke the news that they wouldn't search any longer. That they thought it likely both Sherlock and Moriarty had gone over the edge and been swept away by the current.

Joan had nodded, thanked him politely, and limped back to the hotel she and Sherlock had chosen a week ago.

At first, she was angry. Why did Sherlock have to be a self-sacrificing idiot and wave her off on what he must have known was a fool's errand? If he'd known Moriarty was on their trail, why hadn't he kept her with him? Why hadn't he left the very dangerous area alongside a staggering drop? Why hadn't he at least taken her gun?

But then she saw the coat and the scarf tossed haphazardly over the bed where she'd left them, the coat and scarf he'd never wear again, and in the next moment she was crying miserably on the mattress.

One week ago, she'd drifted off to sleep in this very bed, turning on her side to avoid the glow of the laptop screen that was resting on Sherlock's knees. Apparently falling asleep after sex was for ordinary mortals – Sherlock never seemed drowsy afterwards, only strangely energised.

Usually, he'd leave the bed to potter around downstairs and allow Joan to get her rest, but in the last two months – when they'd been hopping around Europe to escape Moriarty – he'd remained with her. Not that Sherlock had fallen asleep with her or anything like that, but he'd taken to sitting up in bed with his laptop, typing one-handed as the other stroked slowly through her short hair or smoothed over her back.

Joan wondered if Sherlock had seen this coming. If he'd been so overtly affectionate because he'd known the end was near.

She sniffled loudly, and buried her face in the coat, breathing deeply. After a week, the scent had faded, but Joan imagined she could still smell him. She remembered the last time she'd pressed her cheek against this soft fabric – they'd taken a late train from Paris, and while Sherlock might have been capable of staying awake for days at a time, Joan certainly wasn't. She'd yawned widely and Sherlock had pulled her in against his shoulder, and Joan had slept all the way to Brussels.

Joan squeezed her eyes shut, and for a moment, just a moment, she could have sworn she felt a hand in the short, scrubby hairs at her temple, stroking carefully and gently to banish the tension, the way Sherlock did when she had trouble sleeping.

But when she opened her eyes, she was alone.

xx

The funeral was...difficult. Not bad, but not good either. Joan sat ramrod straight in the front row and felt pathetically grateful no one had asked her to give the eulogy. That duty had fallen to Mycroft, and after the service was over Joan pressed herself into a corner at the wake and tried to blend in with the wallpaper.

Wakes were usually an opportunity for people to remember the good times, to reflect fondly on the life of the deceased, but Joan couldn't do it. She couldn't drink tea and eat biscuits and make empty chatter while an empty coffin with Sherlock's name inscribed on the wood was lowered into the ground.

They hadn't even found his body...

"Dr. Watson?" came a deep voice from her right.

Mycroft had found her.

For a moment they simply stared at each other – Joan was trying to suppress the urge to burst into an embarrassing stream of apologies for leaving his brother to face Moriarty alone, and assumed Mycroft was processing the fact that he'd never see Sherlock at her side again.

He didn't seem to be grieving, but Joan assumed Mycroft had much more practice at hiding his emotions – he worked with politicians, after all.

"Is there anything I can do?" he eventually asked, sounding awkward and deeply uncomfortable.

Joan just looked at him.

"I suppose that was a stupid question," Mycroft allowed. "But it had to be asked."

That prompted a weak chuckle that sounded forced even to Joan herself. "Suppose so. And if you hear of some cheap accommodation-"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Cheap accommodation," Joan repeated. "I can't afford the rent in Baker Street on my own."

It was true Mrs. Hudson had offered to let her stay at a drastically reduced rate (Joan had a feeling it was mainly out of pity and mutual grief), but that would hardly be fair. Mrs. Hudson had charged Sherlock and herself rock-bottom prices already, and Joan couldn't in good conscience take advantage of the woman's good nature like that.

"Actually, I think you'll find you can," Mycroft told her. "My brother and I received a substantial inheritance from our parents, and Sherlock's will is quite clear – everything he had passes to you."

Joan blinked. Of course the money might not be enough, but she considered Baker Street her home. The thought of leaving it so soon after Sherlock's death had been heartbreaking.

Even if she wasn't quite sure if she wanted to be the one to decide what to do with Sherlock's violin, with his lab notebook, with his experiments...

Joan sniffed hard in an effort to erase the sudden threat of tears. Mycroft politely pretended not to notice.

"Distribution of the estate usually takes ages..." she began hesitantly.

"Oh, no, my brother's will was quite...indisputable," Mycroft said, with the kind of smile that suggested Mycroft had _made_ it indisputable. ""Everything should be transferred to your name within a week."

Joan honestly didn't know what to say. She was grateful, yet 'thank you' seemed somehow inappropriate.

"I...if you ever need to talk..." she offered, feeling awkward – she'd never been good at emotional displays.

Mycroft's face twisted into an expression Joan had never seen before. There was pity and compassion there, but also something that looked quite close to guilt.

"...thank you," Mycroft said eventually, not meeting her eyes.

Joan tried to smile (though she thought it came out as more of a grimace), and made to move away, hoping she could slip out the back door and go home, but Mycroft's hand on her arm stopped her.

Joan was surprised – Mycroft rarely grabbed hold of people, preferring to use his words to pull them to a halt. Her surprise only increased when he drew her close, almost conspiratorially.

Standing this close, Joan suddenly realised he smelled a little like Sherlock, and swallowed hard against the sudden blockage in her throat. She blinked rapidly, hoping the heat behind her eyes wouldn't translate to tears.

"Joan," Mycroft began, his voice low and intent. "I've told you a myriad of things about Sherlock, some of them facts, some of them mere opinions...but if you believe only one thing I've ever told you, believe me on this – my brother loved you. More than anything. And that is why did what he did."

Joan tensed, feeling a sudden, visceral desire to punch Mycroft in the face. He'd said that as though Sherlock's love for her justified what he'd done, somehow made it all right that he'd left her to run back to the hotel, convinced someone was gravely injured, while he faced Moriarty alone. Perhaps all her presence would have done was provide one more body plummeting over the waterfall...but it had still been her decision to make.

At least it _should_ have been her decision – Sherlock had denied her that choice.

But Joan wasn't about to flatten Sherlock's brother during his funeral, so she settled for pulling her wrist from Mycroft's grip and leaving, hoping it looked like a composed departure and not a furious, misery-filled retreat.

xx

Joan didn't know if she was 'doing well' as people put it, and she couldn't seem to care. The money did indeed come through, as Mycroft had promised, and for the first time Joan understood why Sherlock had never seemed to care about getting paid for the work he did.

Which had raised the question of why he'd even needed a flatmate in the first place, but Joan was trying not to think about that. She was trying very hard not to think about anything to do with Sherlock.

She'd packed the skull, the violin and all the experimental equipment away into what had been Sherlock's room, which had become a storage area about a month or so after they'd begun sharing a bed. Joan knew she'd have to deal with it eventually, either sell them or give them away, but not now. Maybe one day she'd wake up and the thought of Sherlock wouldn't make her want to cry...but she just couldn't deal with it now.

So Joan went through the motions. She woke up, ate breakfast, went to work, came home, ate dinner, and went to bed. Sometimes she went out for dinner with Sarah (who was awfully understanding for an ex-girlfriend), and sometimes it was Harry (Joan couldn't even be bothered to comment on her drinking any more), and sometimes it was Lestrade (when he could get a break from work). She even met Donovan and Anderson (who she liked much better when she learned he and his wife had an open relationship) and the rest for drinks now and then, the officials drinking cocktails while Joan religiously stuck to lemon-lime and bitters.

One thing she wasn't doing any time soon was touching a drop of alcohol. Harry's downward spiral had in part been triggered by their parents' deaths, and some part of Joan was scared to even sip at a beer when she was this disinterested in life – it would be far too easy to just drink herself into lethal alcohol poisoning.

And then her period was late.

At first, Joan told herself it was just stress, that the grief had put a strain on her body...

Except no grief she'd ever heard of made your breasts grow bigger, and after her period failed to make an appearance for the second month in a row, Joan bought herself one of the more reliable over-the-counter tests.

When it was positive, Joan bought six more tests all from different brands, just in case the result was false.

It wasn't.

Joan sat on the bathroom floor, wondering nonsensically how this could have happened. She'd left her pills behind when they'd run off for Europe; they'd only had six minutes to pack, and birth control wasn't high on the list of things you took when you were running for your life. Joan had grabbed her clothes and her gun and that was it – they'd even had to buy toiletries along the way!

And apparently, they shouldn't have bought the cheap condoms, because now Joan was pregnant to a dead man.

"Oh my god," Joan said aloud to the empty bathroom, suddenly realising. "I'm the tragic heroine. That's how it always goes – the hero dies defeating the villain, and she's left pregnant."

And now that her life had officially become the cheap adventure novel it had always threatened to turn into, there was only one thing to say.

"_Fuck!_"

Joan wondered if she should get an abortion. Aside from the medical complications that came with having your first baby at thirty-seven, she had a feeling an adrenaline junkie with an illegal gun wasn't the best person to raise a child. There was also a small, bitter part of her that didn't _want_ to play the role of the tragic heroine, that wanted to reject this and everything it stood for and just get on with her life.

Except...

She was already having a lot of trouble getting on with her life. Would having a baby or not having a baby really change that either way? And god help her, but just the fact that it was _Sherlock's_ child was making something in her chest go soft and gooey, like chocolate left out in the sun.

Damn her sentimental, romantic side to the deepest level of hell!

So, judging by the instinctive, visceral rejection she felt, abortion was out unless she developed some serious medical complications. Joan toyed with the idea of adoption, but that was just so _complicated_. Not to mention that they suspected some aspects of intelligence to be genetic, and for a moment Joan had a nightmare vision of a miniature Sherlock unleashed on some unsuspecting foster family.

For the moment, at least, it looked like she was keeping it, and in the meantime she should at least get off the bathroom floor.

Joan went into the kitchen and got herself a glass of milk, because she'd been strangely desperate for one since she got up and at least now she knew why. Still, a glass of milk wasn't the weirdest craving she'd ever heard of – there was this one woman in med school who'd been desperate for pickled eggs and salt and vinegar crisps.

Joan drank her milk, and tried to sort out how she felt about this. She didn't dislike babies, per se, she'd just filed them under 'things unlikely to happen to me', along with being struck by lightning and winning the lottery. Babies and the consideration thereof had just never really been a part of her life.

So...what now?

xx

Joan had allowed herself the rest of the day to sulk and weep and rant and fear, but the next day, she told herself it was time to pull herself up by her bootstraps and start being proactive. The first thing to do was work out what she needed, so Joan wrote up a shopping list while she was eating breakfast:

_Bread_

_Milk_

_Pineapple_

_Prenatal vitamins_

_Bigger bras_

And, of course, given the way Joan's luck had been going, that was when Mycroft turned up.

She'd dismissed the knock on the door and the sound of Mrs. Hudson's greeting, believing it was Mrs. Turner stopping over for a visit. So when Mycroft was escorted in, Joan was sitting at the kitchen table in her pyjamas, peering at her list and chewing on a mouthful of cereal.

Mycroft smiled politely as Joan frantically tried to swallow and offer some kind of greeting.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," he said, sounding very formal.

"Morning," Joan choked out before she took a large gulp of orange juice to chase down the bits of cereal stuck in her throat.

"Oh, weren't you able to work the coffee machine, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I'll just get it on for you..."

Mrs. Hudson was convinced that the only way to get through grief was with consistent mothering, and Joan had never had the heart to send her away. Largely because she suspected focusing on her was how Mrs. Hudson dealt with her own sorrow, but also because it was...nice...to be fussed over now and again.

"No, that's fine," Joan said quickly. "I just...didn't feel like coffee today."

She'd tried, but just the smell of it had made her nauseous. _'Typical,'_ she thought ruefully. _'Was nothing sacred?' _

Joan wasn't quite sure why she was reluctant to tell them the real reason, but the pregnancy still didn't seem quite real to her, and she felt uncomfortable at the prospect of telling someone else about it. Like she was telling them to believe in magical pink unicorns or something.

But Mycroft's eyes flickered to her orange juice, her cereal...and then the list sitting right there on the table. Joan could have kicked herself for leaving it out, and thanked god that she wasn't a spy of some sort – she wouldn't have lasted five minutes.

Under other circumstances, the way Mycroft's eyes widened would have been comical. "You're pregnant."

"Oh, well done," Joan sniped, snatching the list away.

"You're pregnant?" Mrs. Hudson repeated, coffee abandoned. "Is it Sherlock's, then?"

"Of course it's Sherlock's!" Joan snapped, feeling slightly offended. She'd never been the type to date more than one person at a time, and her one attempt at a relationship before Sherlock had been with Sarah.

"Well, you can't assume these days," Mrs. Hudson said innocently. "What with all these open relationships and swingers and I don't know what else..."

Joan groaned.

"And why didn't you tell me? I might not have any firsthand experience, but I can't tell you how many of my friends have had babies over the years...unless, of course, you're not keeping it."

"She's written down prenatal vitamins on her shopping list," Mycroft pointed out. "That suggests she plans to carry the pregnancy to term."

Joan groaned again, but with a lot more frustration this time around. "Yes, I'm pregnant, yes, it's Sherlock's, yes, I'm 'carrying it to term', and I didn't tell anyone because I only found out yesterday!"

She rose from her chair, attempting to look dignified in her threadbare pyjamas with teddy bears all over them (a joke gift from Harry).

"Now, I'm going upstairs, getting dressed, and then I'm going shopping."

She'd planned for a dramatic, sweeping exit (Sherlock might have been more of an influence than she'd thought), but Mycroft forestalled her by plucking the list from her fingers.

"I'm sure I can get someone else to take care of this," he said, glancing over it once more.

"I'm sure you can, but you won't!" Joan snapped, snatching it back. "If you've got someone who can get me bras in the right size, I don't want to know about it! At least give me the illusion of personal privacy."

Mycroft quirked his lips in a way that reminded her of Sherlock when he was amused, and Joan hoped the sudden tightness in her chest hadn't made her breath hitch audibly.

"Uh...why did you come over?" she asked, hoping for a line of conversation that would distract her from the comparison.

"Oh, just to check up on you," Mycroft smiled, though a disconcerted expression flickered across his eyes as he glanced down at her (still relatively flat) belly.

"Okay, well you've checked up, bravo, though why you couldn't just get your surveillance people to do it for you..."

"Some things require a more personal touch," was all Mycroft said, though he was still staring at her abdomen in a way Joan found rather unsettling.

She didn't even think about it. All Joan knew was that she didn't like the expression on Mycroft's face – something between calculation and sympathy with a touch of horror – and it was only when Mrs. Hudson had tittered behind her hand that Joan realised her right hand had curved protectively around her waist.

Joan flushed, dropping her arm and wondering why she'd done that – it wasn't as though Mycroft's stare was going to hurt the little lump of dividing tissue.

"I'll be going now," she muttered awkwardly.

"Come back for lunch won't you?" Mrs. Hudson called as Joan made her way upstairs. "I made far too much pea and ham soup last night..."

Joan was tempted to ask _'so are you my housekeeper now?'_, but knew that was just misplaced frustration. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson's fault she was in this mess.

She sighed, and spared a moment to pray that the flat would be empty when she descended to go shopping.

xx

"Pregnant?" Sarah repeated, sounding disbelieving.

"Pregnant," Joan nodded. "I'll still be working for a few months yet, but I figured I should give you the heads-up."

Joan had decided she was keeping the baby. Really, she suspected her decision had been made the moment she'd wrapped her arm around her belly – that inherently protective gesture had sealed her fate.

Though occasionally she still envisaged Sherlock's...Sherlock-ness, combining with her addiction to danger and producing the craziest kid ever born.

As a part-time worker, Joan didn't qualify for maternity leave and frankly, with the money she'd inherited from Sherlock, she didn't need it. Practically overnight, Joan had become wealthy enough to take several years off work, and planned to do just that – she'd look for a job again when her baby was in school.

Sometimes, thinking that far ahead, thinking of having a kid running around and going to school, made Joan feel a sort of sickening terror not unlike the vertigo you felt when looking down from a very high balcony. The idea of raising a child, of having a helpless living creature entirely dependent on her was...well, frightening.

"So...how are you coping?" Sarah asked hesitantly. "With...with everything."

"It's getting better," Joan evaded.

She didn't want to admit she'd cried on the sofa for almost half an hour just that morning after discovering a small sheaf of paper tucked between the cushions. It had been crumpled and smudged and obviously the worse for wear, and it had taken several seconds to realise the apparently random sketches on it were actually Sherlock's attempts to replicate the exact shape of the scar tissue on her shoulder.

While some people might have found that creepy, Joan had instead remembered the night Sherlock had seemed to be making an honest attempt to map the scar with his tongue (three days before he died), and had bawled herself silly (and blamed the hormones later, of course).

But she _was_ getting better. In the beginning, she'd felt like crying every time she woke up at a decent time, reminded that she'd never again be roused ridiculously early by the sound of a violin in the living room or a miniature explosion in the kitchen or Sherlock shaking her awake for a case. Everything around the flat had reminded her of him, and for a week or so Joan had honestly considered moving out altogether.

She wasn't over it – somehow, Joan doubted she'd ever be completely over it – but she no longer felt like she was one misplaced beaker away from bursting into tears. There were still little things that would catch her up – the flat would creak in the night and she'd swear she heard a footstep, a sudden brush of wind would remind her of the way Sherlock's fingers used to absently card through her stubby hair when he was distracted...but even they weren't as heartbreaking as they used to be. Just the other day, Molly had tried to joke that her job was much more boring now that no one came in asking to flog corpses and Joan had found herself smiling rather than sniffing back tears.

She was still a little depressed about the prospect of raising the child without a father, though. Uncle Mycroft would have to be the male role model, though she might try to rope Lestrade into it as well, for a less megalomaniacal influence.

"Well, if you need any help – suggestions, babysitting..." Sarah shrugged. "My brother's got three children, so I've got an idea of the basics."

"So you're the person I call hysterically in the middle of the night when the baby's crying and I have no idea what it wants?"

"Well, I wouldn't go _that_ far..."

Joan chuckled for a few moments, the laughter sounding somehow unnatural, as though it had rusted from lack of use.

Sarah looked as though she was trying to find a way to diplomatically ask an un-diplomatic question. "Were you...trying for it?"

"No," Joan said bluntly. "We bought overly-cheap condoms while we were hopping around Europe. And Sherlock was very...attentive."

Almost as though he'd known what was coming, and had been trying to make as many good memories as possible...

And dammit, how effective were condoms meant to be, anyway? Ninety-eight percent or something like that, Joan was sure. It just figured she'd wind up in the other two percent.

xx

Telling Harry had gone about as well as expected. Joan had agreed to go out for a friendly drink (which never ended well, but it was pretty much the only way she could see her sister these days), and Harry had scoffed at her when she'd religiously stuck to water.

"You must be over the grieving period by now," she urged. "I'll even buy you one of those fancy martinis you usually only indulge in on special occasions."

Joan shook her head. "Sorry, Harry, but it's strictly soft drinks and water for me tonight."

"Come on, Jo – what are you, pregnant?"

"Yes, actually."

Joan had never been good at breaking news tactfully.

Harry's eyes had bugged out like tennis balls, and then she'd suddenly seemed furious. "Are you telling me that arsehole knocked you up and then had the gall to die on you?"

In spite of herself, Joan was amused. "You say that like it was his choice."

"Shit, what's your kid going to be like?" Harry muttered, her thoughts obviously diving off on another tangent altogether. "It's going to shoot like a sniper and have that same freaky intellect...oh god, your baby's going to be some sign of the apocalypse, isn't it?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Joan said, trying and failing to hide her grin.

She probably shouldn't be so amused, but Harry just looked so _horrified_ at the prospect of Sherlock's genes combining with Joan's, as though she was expecting Joan to give birth to some sort of super-villain.

Automatically, her hand dropped to her belly, rubbing it slowly even though she knew it was impossible to feel the baby at this stage. It might be Joan's imagination, but she did think her abdomen felt...firmer than usual, the walls of her uterus thickening to support and protect the tiny lump of cells that, at this point, wouldn't even be bigger than a peanut.

Just one of many changes to come. At ten weeks pregnant, her belly was starting to curve just slightly, layers of fat being put down in preparation to sustain the baby's rapid growth in the final trimester. Her breasts had grown two cup sizes as glands expanded in readiness to produce breast milk.

Joan was a doctor; she'd read the textbooks, seen the anatomical specimens, consulted at hospitals and even observed births – pregnancy was no mystery to her. And yet, she couldn't help but be strangely fascinated by the way her body was changing. She'd always just nodded and smiled politely at the women who'd described it as wondrous but, god help her, it kind of _was_.

"Still, I _am_ wickedly envious of your bust size now," Harry offered. "Just saying. And here I thought you'd got surgery or something..."

Joan laughed, and drank her lemonade.

xx

Fourteen weeks along, and Joan was starting to consider maternity clothes. There was a definite thickness at her waist now – not enough to prevent her wearing her favourite pair of jeans, but certainly enough to make her think about what it would be like in a few weeks time. She'd have to pick up a cot and a changing table at some point as well; preferably now, as she didn't want to be assembling it when she couldn't see her feet.

She'd waited to tell Lestrade and the others until the first trimester was over and the high-risk miscarriage period had passed. The first twelve weeks or so was the period in which the building blocks were being laid, so to speak, and the most likely time for something to go wrong and result in a miscarriage, especially as this was Joan's first pregnancy. But now that was over and done with, her chances of carrying this baby to term rose significantly.

There was a sort of informal get-together about once a month, in which Joan, Molly, and people who'd had to work with Sherlock in an official capacity went down to the pub and drank and talked and (on occasion) reminisced. It had started after the funeral and had continued by a sort of silent consensus – Joan thought they were really just worried that they'd lose touch with each other, and figured knowing Sherlock bonded people in the same way a life-threatening experience would have.

But before she made her announcement, she was going to listen to Lestrade's and Dimmock's loud debate over whose first day with Sherlock was the worst.

"You can't win at this," Lestrade was telling the other inspector. "You just can't. Because when you met Sherlock, he already knew Joan. And before Joan came along, Sherlock was an absolute _nightmare_."

Donovan snickered. "Yeah, the Inspector here used to wait until the last minute to call him in, and usually only because he made such a bloody nuisance of himself. When she came along," Donovan nodded at Joan, "We started calling him in at the beginning of cases, rather than as a last resort."

"Still, he was a monumental prick during that case," Joan reflected. "Although, looking back on it, it _might_ have had something to do with the fact that I was dating Sarah at the time."

"Well, that explains it," Dimmock mused. "I knew he was smitten-"

"You _did_?" Joan blurted. Because really, that was news to her.

"We all knew," Anderson shrugged. "He was less boastful when you weren't around. Not by much, of course, but it was there. And when you _were_ around..."

"He'd show off like mad," Molly finished with a sad smile.

Lestrade nodded. "He'd strut 'round like a cock in a hen yard."

"Oh," Joan said quietly. She'd never noticed any difference in Sherlock's behaviour with her...but then, that was the point – they said he'd been like that whenever she was with him.

The thought that Sherlock had been showing off for her like a little boy with his first crush made her throat tight and her eyes itch, just a little.

Joan cleared her throat roughly. "Everyone? I have something to say...or, well, I guess it's sort of an announcement..."

Molly's eyes widened. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"

Anderson choked on his drink, Dimmock groaned, Lestrade goggled at her, and Donovan scrubbed a hand over her face.

"I'm pregnant," Joan confirmed. "How did you know?"

"This is our fourth get-together, and I've never seen you drink anything but soft drink and mocktails," Molly explained. "And I suspected something when you came over to Bart's and gave the teratogens a wide berth."

Joan nodded, remembering. A teratogen was the nickname given to any substance that could cause abnormalities in developing embryos and foetuses – she'd ensured she stayed well away from them.

"And I'm sure everyone's noticed you've been getting...well..." Molly gestured to small bulge that could be seen beneath Joan's clothes.

"I'd noticed," Lestrade admitted. "But if I've learned only one thing in all my life, it's that you never mention a woman's weight or age."

He sighed. "Well, congratulations, Joan."

"Thanks," Joan grinned. "Though it still feels a bit strange to think that I'm pregnant – it's not like we were planning it or anything."

It was only Dimmock's semi-incredulous gaze that made her realise her hand had wrapped around her belly again, rubbing gently back and forth as though she was subconsciously trying to soothe the baby developing beneath her skin.

"How far along are you?" Donovan asked. "Do you know the sex yet? Or are you planning to leave it be a surprise?"

"Only fourteen weeks, so I don't know yet," Joan said. "I'll probably find out in at my next appointment."

And she wanted to know, if only so she could assign a pronoun in her head and stop calling the baby 'it' all the time.

"Are you having problems with morning sickness?" Molly wondered. "You never seemed to be eating bland food, which is why I wasn't too sure if you were pregnant or not..."

"Actually, I seem to have dodged that bullet for the most part," Joan admitted. "The smell of some things made me want to puke, but as long as I started out the day with some fairly bland food, I was all right."

"Oh god," Anderson whimpered. "You know what this means, don't you? In twenty years time there'll be another one."

Lestrade snorted. "I plan to be retired by then."

"Amen," Dimmock muttered, taking another swig of his drink.

xx

Joan liked her doctor – Dr. Harris was a red-headed woman in her early fifties, a practical kind of woman who didn't take any nonsense. She'd never condescended to Joan, either; once she'd learned that Joan was in the medical profession herself, she didn't bother dumbing down her language and explained everything to her as one doctor to another.

She was currently sixteen weeks along, and definitely starting to round out. There was a solid curve to the skin that Dr. Harris was slathering with the ultrasound gel – this was the appointment where Joan got to learn whether she was having a girl or a boy.

Having an ultrasound was always kind of strange. Every time she saw the shadow of the baby on the screen, Joan found it slightly unbelievable that a tiny life was forming inside her. Strangely, that cliché about pregnancy was true – it _was_ sort of...magical.

"There we go," Dr. Harris said, sounding satisfied, while Joan was still caught up in watching her baby flex its hands. "You're having a girl."

"Oh," Joan whispered faintly, still staring at the screen.

That was her baby. In twenty-six weeks or so, she'd give birth to a daughter.

"You'll probably start to feel her moving soon," Dr. Harris went on. "It won't be much at first, just a little flutter now and then."

Joan nodded. She knew the baby would have to get bigger before she really started to feel it kick.

She wondered if she should start thinking about names.

xx

The cot and change table were being taken care of, courtesy of Mycroft. He wouldn't hear of her paying for anything, and really, Joan didn't argue too hard – if she was going to take a few years off work, penny-pinching had to come in somewhere, even with the ridiculous amount of money Sherlock had left to her.

"You do realise that for your niece or nephew to think you're the best uncle ever you have to spoil them _after_ they come out," she couldn't help pointing out as his assistant (whose name wasn't Anthea today, but Tatiana) took down Joan's specifications for a cot.

Which, really, weren't much aside from 'something that can fit in my room and isn't too gaudy'.

Mycroft came around at least once a fortnight, sometimes twice. He had a weird habit of looking almost guilty whenever he glanced at the slight curve of her belly, and – bizarrely – almost panicked, as though he didn't quite know what to do. She was tempted to ask if anyone had been pregnant around him before, because she was pretty sure he'd been seven years old when Sherlock was born...but she didn't mention it.

In a weird way, it was nice to have Mycroft over. He always brought delicious food that seemed to come from restaurants she _knew_ didn't do takeaway, and she got to tease him by asking him if he was ready to be an uncle.

It was only in jest, though – she suspected Mycroft would be a wonderful uncle, even if he was a little prone to trying to control every facet of the world around him. Actually, that wouldn't have been so bad; it was the fact that he'd more or less succeeded that made it so unnerving.

"Oh, by the way, do you have any suggestions as to names?" Joan asked, because Mycroft was there, and she figured she might as well get the uncle's input since the father's...would not be forthcoming.

"Male or female?" Mycroft inquired.

"You know very well the baby's a girl – you probably knew not ten minutes after I did."

"...I was trying to abide by your request," Mycroft admitted. "You asked for the illusion of privacy, did you not?"

"Ha, ha," Joan said, her voice loaded with sarcasm. "So, any suggestions? Family members you were fond of?"

"What about _your_ family?"

"I'm not to call my daughter after any family member that's still alive, so Harriet is out," Joan said firmly. "And I'm not calling her after my mother – I'm sure Ivonne was a perfectly lovely name in its time, but that time has passed."

"Our mother's name was Camila," Mycroft offered, and Joan made an indecisive humming sound.

"Our maternal grandmother was Adriana," he continued. "And our paternal grandmother was Amelia."

"I like the sound of them more than Camila," Joan admitted. "Maybe Amelia? Though Adriana sounds nice as well...maybe for a middle name?"

She chewed on the end of her pen and surveyed the list in front of her of prospective names. Thus far she had:

_Claire_

_Michelle_

_Jennifer_

_Stephanie_

_Lauren_

_Grace_

_Melissa_

She scribbled _Amelia_ and _Adriana_ on the bottom of the list and wet her lips before asking, hesitantly, "Was there anyone in your family Sherlock was particularly close to?"

Even if he was dead, it seemed somehow important to have a name he would have approved of – Joan wasn't about to name their baby after someone he'd hated.

Mycroft paused, then said gently, "I believe he was particularly fond of the name 'Joan'."

Something thrummed painfully in Joan's chest, like a violin string plucked too hard.

"It's...pretty old-fashioned these days," she managed.

"Perhaps a more modern equivalent? May I suggest Joanne or Joanna for a middle name?"

"...that sounds nice."

xx

Twenty-one weeks in, Joan was lying down on the sofa with a piece of paper, still torn between four names: Adriana, Amelia, Grace, and Lauren. Her 'baby bump' wasn't just a slight swelling at her waist anymore; her body was bulging from sternum to pubic bone, and she'd propped her feet up against the arm of the sofa – she was putting her feet up whenever she could, as from this point onwards she'd be prone to varicose veins.

She said the names aloud one by one, in the hope that something would appeal to her.

"Adriana Joanne Watson."

"Amelia Joanne Watson."

"Grace Joanne Watson."

"Lauren Joanne Watson."

Joan huffed to herself – she still couldn't decide. Except she might be ruling 'Lauren' out, on the basis that with it, every name ended with an 'n' sound. Maybe 'Laura' as an alternative?

Something quivered inside her, and for a moment Joan thought her stomach was about to rumble or a burp was coming on. But nothing happened, and it didn't feel like some gastrointestinal upset...strangely, it felt almost like a goldfish was swimming around in her guts.

It took her a few seconds to realise she was feeling her daughter moving.

Stunned, Joan pressed a hand to her belly, and there it was – a tiny flutter against her hand, like she'd somehow swallowed a live bird.

The sensation startled a laugh out of her, but on its heels came an intense pang of regret that Sherlock wasn't here to feel this with her. Because aside from being the baby's father and her lover, he'd been her best friend. She missed being able to talk to him, missed his often-sarcastic comments on whatever problems she was facing, some of which seemed to have been designed purely to make her laugh...she just missed him being around, period.

Even five months on, it still hurt. Not the way it used to – there was no sharp, knife-edge of grief that stopped her throat and twisted in her chest. Now there was the dull ache of a scar stretching, of a wound scabbed but still tender in places. Maybe one day she'd be able to think of Sherlock without pain, but only with the fondness you felt for an old, very good memory.

She didn't see that day coming any time soon, though.

xx

"Whoa," Donovan muttered when Joan squeezed into the booth as she arrived at their get-together. "Baby's popping out a bit, isn't she?"

"Just a bit," Joan groaned, shifting to try to find a comfortable position. At twenty-nine weeks along, her lower back tended to ache if she sat in the wrong position or stood for too long.

"Have you felt it kick yet?" Molly asked, obviously curious.

"Yes." Joan couldn't back a grin at the thought. "You want to feel it?"

Molly nodded eagerly.

"I'll give you a shout if she's starting up, yeah?"

"Settled on a name, yet?" Lestrade asked.

"Not so much," Joan admitted. "Right now I'm torn between Amelia or Adriana."

"Adriana sounds more like something Sherlock's daughter should be called," Molly offered. "But Amelia's a lovely name, too."

Joan sighed. "Then you see my dilemma – it's difficult to pick between them."

"Go with Amelia," Donovan said bluntly. "It's a nice, nondescript name."

"Come on, Donovan," Lestrade cajoled. "There'll probably be half a dozen 'Amelia's at whatever school she goes to – give the girl a little flavour."

Joan giggled, then caught sight of Dimmock and Anderson, pointedly not commenting and staring into their drinks.

"You two are pretty quiet."

"I don't want to think about Sherlock having a kid," Anderson muttered. "It seems somehow unnatural. I mean, I thought he was only aware of sex as an abstract concept!"

Joan couldn't resist. "Oh, sex with Sherlock was far from 'abstract'..."

For good measure, she added a salacious purr at the end.

Almost everyone around the table cringed. Except for Molly, who just looked intrigued.

"I'm envisioning the sort of nightmares the kid is going to give you if she's even half as smart as her father," Dimmock admitted. "I know I'm probably going to seem like a bastard for saying this, but...you are never to call me for babysitting duties, do you hear me? _Never!_"

Joan laughed. Someone else might have been offended, but just found it rather amusing that so many people seemed to assume her daughter would be some sort universal terror.

xx

Joan was beginning to see why people complained about being pregnant. She was thirty-six weeks along, and had long-ceased working at the clinic. She tired so easily these days, it just wasn't feasible to try to knock out a nine-to-five day, even if it was only three times a week. And the exhaustion was just one dot point on her laundry list of complaints.

She needed to go to the bathroom every ten minutes (or at least, that was what it felt like). She had trouble eating a full meal in one sitting because the baby was taking up so much room in her body. She wasn't feeling so out of breath nowadays as the developing child settled lower in her pelvis, but it came at the price of difficulty walking, and an unsettling feeling of pressure between her legs.

Joan also had to deal with Braxton-Hick's contractions at irregular intervals. She knew the false contractions were her body's ways of preparing for true labour, but they were damn irritating!

Still, at least she'd decided on a name. When her daughter came into the world, she was coming in as Adriana Joanne Watson.

Perhaps there was an over-abundance of 'a's in that name, but a surplus of vowels never hurt anyone.

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Joan made to get up from where she was sprawled on the sofa.

"You stay right where you are!" Mrs. Hudson called up. "I'll get the door – you just rest yourself, dear."

Joan smiled fondly. Since the first day Mrs. Hudson had known Joan was pregnant, she'd treated it like the arrival of the grandchild she'd never had. Joan was never at risk of going hungry, as Mrs. Hudson had been cooking for her ever since she'd got so enormous it had become a real chore to struggle out of bed.

"I brought lemonade," Sarah said as she entered the flat. "And I rented _Thelma and Louise_."

Joan grinned. Just last week, she'd confessed to never having seen the movie, which Sarah had declared as a crime against classical films everywhere. So they were having a movie night.

"How's things at the clinic?" Joan asked as Sarah made herself at home, grabbing glasses and a large packet of crisps.

"The usual – all sniffles and hypochondriacs," Sarah joked.

Joan shifted upwards on the sofa to make room for her friend, and started as she felt the distinctive stirring inside her that signalled Adriana's movements.

"She's kicking!" Joan exclaimed.

Then, as Sarah glanced at the enormous protrusion of her belly, "Want to feel?"

Sarah nodded, and Joan guided her palms to press against the place where her skin was actually jumping out from the force of her baby's kicks.

Sarah's face lit with the combination of wonder and fascination that passed across everyone's face when Joan invited them to feel Adriana moving. She sometimes pondered why people were so enchanted by it; maybe because even from a purely medical perspective it was pretty amazing – she was growing a whole other person beneath her skin!

Mrs. Hudson always giggled like a schoolgirl whenever she felt the baby kicking, while Mycroft tended to fuss a little and ask questions like _'is she supposed to be kicking that hard?'_ and _'are you sure that doesn't hurt?'_. Like Sarah, Molly had more of a medical perspective on the whole thing, and liked to press and pod at Joan's abdomen to see if she could determine Adriana's position, and what was a tiny hand and what was a miniature foot. Lestrade and Anderson always went a bit gooey when they were touching her belly, and even Dimmock and Donovan hadn't been immune to it – Dimmock had grinned a little stupidly when one kick had landed solidly against his palm, and even as reserved as she usually was, Donovan had been smiling when she drew away.

And it was probably weird that she still called them by their last names, but Joan just couldn't help it. That was how they'd been introduced, and that was how she thought of them.

"How long to go again?" Sarah asked when Adriana had settled down.

"About six weeks," Joan said.

"Any solid plans?"

"Get through the birth, raise her, hope I don't screw it up," Joan said succinctly.

Everything was set up and ready – largely courtesy of Uncle Mycroft. There were disposable nappies tucked into a corner of a bathroom, and a cot upstairs in her bedroom. Joan had briefly entertained the idea of clearing Sherlock's room out for the baby, but had swiftly decided that if she was going to be feeling anywhere close to the exhaustion she felt now, she wanted Adriana's cot right next to her own bed.

"Anyway, enough about this," Joan declared, switching the television on. "Show me why _Thelma and Louise_ is not to be missed."

xx

Eight days off her due date, and Joan was sick and tired or having to drag herself down to Dr. Harris' offices every week.

"I know it's not the due date for at least a week, but still...could you hurry up?" she muttered to her swollen midsection as she climbed aboard the bus.

She'd always scoffed at mothers who talked to their babies in the uterus as though they could hear and understand them, but it was actually surprisingly soothing. This was probably why so many people talked to their pets.

Joan slumped down into one of the seats reserved for the elderly and expectant mothers, and in the process knocked a stack of books out of the hands of the man next to her.

"I'm so sorry," she said, twisting awkwardly to the side and down in an effort to pick up the books that had scattered into the aisle.

She held them out to him, smiling apologetically, but the man was staring fixedly at her rounded belly. The baggiest top and stretchiest jumper in her wardrobe covered it neatly, but there was still no doubt she was either pregnant, or had gained a lot of weight in a very unusual manner.

"You're pregnant," the man said quietly, sounding shell-shocked.

"Yes," Joan said brightly. "I'm due in about a week – I'm off to my doctor's for a check-up."

Usually she didn't go around giving out information like that, but she was feeling more and more cheerful as her due date approached. An end to the backaches and constant peeing was something to celebrate.

She knew most mothers were more worried about the actual delivery than the pregnancy, but for Joan, it had been the other way around. So many things could go wrong during gestation that you were far more likely to lose the baby to a miscarriage than problems during the birth. But she was over the hump, and even if she started going into labour tomorrow, odds were that the baby would be fine.

She expected that to be it – that the elderly man would just nod and turn back to the books in his arms. But instead, he continued, sounding almost hesitant.

"I take it the father is...unavailable?"

A dull ache throbbed briefly through her chest, and Joan wondered when this would ever _not_ hurt.

"He's dead," she said quietly, looking down and away.

"...I'm sorry..."

It might have been Joan's imagination, but the tone seemed laden with a lot more emotion than just a stranger apologising for his ignorance of her circumstances. She wondered if someone close to him had died recently.

"You didn't know," she said, looking up again and trying to smile.

Something thumped against the underside of her ribs – not hard, but enough to make her gasp and clutch at her belly.

"Are you all right?" the man asked, sounding much more concerned than she'd expect from someone she'd met just a few moments ago.

"I'm fine," Joan wheezed. "She just got me a good one in the ribs."

"She?" her new acquaintance echoed, staring at bulge beneath her jumper in awe and wonder and something that looked suspiciously like sorrow and regret.

Had he lost a child at some point in his life?

Joan wasn't sure what drove her to make the offer – it seemed ludicrous, but something prompted her to say, "If you want to feel her moving, you can."

Hesitantly, almost as though he was afraid she'd shatter beneath his fingers, the man stretched his hand out to curve around Joan's belly. Adriana was still kicking and squirming (thankfully avoiding Joan's ribs and other important organs), and he honestly seemed to be marvelling at the sensation, though it was mingled with something that looked very much like bewilderment.

The bus began to slow, and Joan suddenly realised it was approaching the street the clinic was on.

"Oh!" she declared, rising as swiftly as she could and dislodging the man's hand. "This is my stop!"

She thought the man was calling out to her, and actually seemed to be getting up as though he intended to follow her, but with a parting wave, she was off the bus and walking down the street.

Apparently her body was objecting to how quickly she'd moved, because Joan had barely got three steps before she felt a dull, cramping pain in her pelvis. More Braxton-Hick's contractions – she could tell because true contractions were felt in the lower back and tended to wrap around to the abdomen, while false ones tended to be concentrated in the lower pelvic region alone.

She'd have to keep herself aware of them, as false contractions sometimes turned into true labour, but they'd probably just go away, as they'd always done before.

So Joan sighed to herself, grit her teeth, and kept on walking.


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

Joan had expected her life to get less exciting after Sherlock's death. She'd expected her appointment to be routine, with Dr. Harris checking on Adriana's heartbeat and how she was sitting in the uterus.

She hadn't expected a gun-toting maniac to take the clinic hostage and drag her into the exam room.

"So...what's your name again?" Joan asked, figuring it was a good idea to know exactly who the man with the gun was.

The man grinned at her, as though he was privately amused by what she'd said. "I'm Sebastian Moran."

Joan's eyes widened – she knew that name. That had been the name of Moriarty's right hand man, though no one had seen hide nor hair of him since...since Reichenbach. They'd begun to believe that Moran had been some kind of code name, assumed by whoever was doing Moriarty's dirty work at the time.

"You worked for Moriarty."

"Very good," he smirked.

If Joan had thought knowing who he was would in some way explain what he was doing, she had been proved wrong. She could understand if he just wanted to kill her, but why kidnap her and hold her at gunpoint in a doctor's clinic?

Joan hissed as another false contraction gripped her, grateful this room had possessed a chair she'd been able to sit down in.

"Is there any point to this?" she snapped. "Or did you just feel an urge to take a pregnant woman hostage to see what would happen?"

She knew she shouldn't antagonise the man with the gun, but pain and frustration had a firm hold of her voice. And she suspected that if all he wanted was to kill her, it would have been over and done with already.

Moran's explanation, however, was only more bewildering. "I'm waiting for Sherlock to turn up."

Joan couldn't quite credit what she'd just heard.

"Sherlock's dead," she said tightly. "He went over a cliff with your boss, remember?"

Moran cocked his head, regarding her with something close to surprise. He observed her with narrowed eyes for long moments, and then he laughed.

"You really believe that," he mused, sounding as though he were marvelling.

Joan told herself the sinking feeling in her gut was just her breakfast settling. "Of course I believe it – it's true!"

But Moran shook his head, his smile still exuding smugness. "Only partly. Jim went over the cliff, but Sherlock didn't. And I should know – I saw it happen."

_'Impossible,' _was the only thought that ran through Joan's head. _'Sherlock wouldn't do that to me, he wouldn't...'_

_'But they never found the body, remember?' _hissed a vicious little voice in the back of her mind that bore more than a passing resemblance to Moriarty.

"I mean, I knew he was getting Big Brother to send him money," Moran snorted, and another streak of pain went through Joan like the blade of a knife.

She remembered how awkward Mycroft had been at Sherlock's funeral, how the expression on his face had been something close to guilt whenever he looked at her pregnant belly.

She didn't want to believe it. But Moran seemed so confident, so sure...

Was that why Mycroft had been visiting so often? To assuage the guilt of knowing his brother had left her behind like so much dead weight?

And if Mycroft had known...why hadn't she? If Sherlock had taken the trouble to inform his brother he was still alive, why couldn't he have paid her the same courtesy? Didn't he know what she was going through, or had he just not cared?

Joan had loved him, and she'd thought that she'd at least meant _something_ to Sherlock...but apparently she'd been fooling herself all along.

"And here I thought you were in on it," Moran laughed cruelly. "But you weren't, were you? He fooled you just the same as he fooled the whole world."

Fortunately, Joan's flinch at that remark was disguised as a reaction to the false contraction that ripped through her in the next instant.

Except this time, the pain wasn't centred in her lower abdomen. The pain came from everywhere – back, abdomen, pelvis – as though an iron band had briefly tightened around her midsection.

That wasn't a false contraction.

"I mean, I was watching you," Moran continued. "I kept expecting him to contact you...and he finally did. That old man on the bus? That was him. I thought you knew, but apparently it..." he burst into spasms of laughter, "...it slipped right past you."

Joan was barely paying attention. She'd deal with her heartbreak later – right now, she was in labour!

In the next instant, she told herself to calm down. The average length of active labour was about twelve hours, so she had a while to go. Her cervix needed to dilate to ten centimetres, which meant she had hours yet ahead of her.

At which point, this would hopefully be resolved, one way or the other.

Joan pressed a hand over her belly – even though she knew Adriana was completely unaware of what was going on, she still felt the need to soothe her daughter.

_'I'm not going to let anything happen to you,'_ she willed. '_I'm going to keep you safe even if it kills me.'_

Taking a deep breath, Joan resolved not to let on to Moran that she was in labour. So she attempted to keep him talking.

"_How_ will Sherlock turn up?" she asked, trying to inject as much defiance and irritation into her voice as she could. "Are you expecting him to just mysteriously sense that I'm in trouble and come running? Because I'm pretty sure that was the purview of Spider Man."

Moran smirked. "Cute. I can see why he thought you were worth a fuck or two."

Joan stiffened, but she was almost hoping he would try something. Her pregnancy left her completely unable to knock the gun out of his hand with a roundhouse kick, but if he got close enough for her to use her hands...

"If I was him, I know I'd be keeping an eye on you," Moran went on, leaning casually back in his chair. "Besides, all the people that ran out of here? It's only a matter of time before this is on the news."

He sighed, producing a pair of handcuffs. "And on that note..."

Moran tossed them towards her, and Joan caught them automatically.

"Cuff yourself to the sink," he ordered.

Joan didn't move. "And why would I do that?"

Moran raised the gun to point at her head but then, after a moment's consideration, lowered it until the muzzle was aiming squarely at her bulging abdomen.

While the gun aimed at her head had provoked little beyond detached calculation, the sight of it pointing at her belly swamped Joan with the instinctive, maternal terror of a mother whose child was in danger. She was aware the distinction was slightly ludicrous – at this stage, a bullet in her head was just as likely to be fatal to Adriana as a bullet in Joan's uterus – but she couldn't deny that it was _there_.

Joan handcuffed herself to the small sink in the corner of the room – one cuff around her right wrist, the other around the pipe that ran underneath the basin.

Moran put the gun down on the exam table before he came to check her bonds, more's the pity. When he was satisfied that she'd secured the cuffs tightly and that she couldn't dislodge the sink on her own, he left.

Joan was a little miffed he hadn't felt the need to tell her where he was going or what he was planning to do. But as soon as she couldn't hear his footsteps any more, she began raiding the small cabinet beside her for something she could use as a weapon.

Alas, there were no handy penknives, but Joan did find a small pair of sharp scissors that would work in a pinch, and concealed them up the sleeve of her jumper.

And then she waited. She stood, she sat, she stood again, she breathed slow and steady through each contraction. Her contractions were coming unusually close together for so early in her labour, but she told herself over and over again that there was no need to worry – that everything would be sorted out long before Adriana started actually being born.

When Moran came back, she'd coax him over to her somehow, at which point she'd stab him in the throat with the scissors and take the keys to the handcuffs. She'd call the police and the ambulance, and she'd be in hospital within half an hour.

Joan was still telling herself that when she became aware of a sudden flush of dampness in her underwear, and a trickle of liquid down her thigh. For a moment, she thought the pressure on her bladder had made her wet herself, but the stream was slow and steady, and there was no smell of urine.

Automatically, she kicked off her flip-flops and yanked at the drawstring of her trousers, ripping them and her underwear down in one vicious movement and shaking them from her ankles.

Sure enough, thin lines of clear fluid were flowing down her legs. Her water had broken.

Even though she knew women experienced their water breaking (or rupture of the membranes) at different stages of labour, Joan couldn't quell the small dart of terror that lodged below her sternum.

"Listen, kid," she muttered, her voice as firm as she could make it. "I know I settled on Adriana, but if you come out now I swear I'll call you the most ridiculous name I can think of. You'll be...you'll be..._Sherlockina!_ Do you hear that? You come out now, and you're Sherlockina, but you stay in until we're out of this, it'll be Adriana. So, do we have a deal?"

Joan's answer was another contraction.

xx

Moran had been gone for an hour, and – in the privacy of her mind – Joan would admit she was terrified.

Her contractions were now deep, all-consuming pangs that stole her breath, and they were coming ten minutes apart. Joan wasn't an expert on childbirth – she hadn't specialised in gynaecology, after all – but she knew this was atypical.

It was happening too quickly. Joan knew that every birth was different – she'd heard of labours that didn't even last an hour – but she couldn't shake the fear. This was supposed to be happening in a hospital, or at least with someone on hand to tell her how dilated she was, to monitor how the baby was going...and some kind of pain relief would have been nice.

Joan concentrated on her breathing and tried not to remember every horrible labour story she'd ever heard of.

She was kneeling the floor now, and though her knees (and her leg) were protesting, no other position was workable. She couldn't lie down – the floor was slick with amniotic fluid – there was no way she could stand with the agonising contractions ripping through her body, and sitting in the chair was far too uncomfortable.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway – two sets this time – and Joan tensed, fingering the small pair of scissors concealed in her sleeve. She hoped she wouldn't be hit by a contraction when she went for Moran. It was all very well and good to talk about pushing through the pain, but in the first moments a contraction hit, it literally knocked the breath out of you.

The door opened, and Joan's heart slammed into her ribs as Sherlock entered the room.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, and Joan dimly realised that he was wearing the same clothes the old man had been wearing.

The knowledge that Moran had been right burned in her throat like sulphuric acid, and in that moment Joan felt more fury at Sherlock than she'd ever felt for anyone before.

Then another contraction tore through her and Joan choked on a scream, grabbing the edge of the sink to stop from curling in on herself. Dammit, when had her contractions dropped from ten minutes apart to six minutes?

"What's the matter with you?" came Moran's sneering inquiry when Joan could see straight again.

He was behind Sherlock, a gun pointed squarely at the other man's liver. Joan realised that Sherlock's arrival wasn't so much the coming of the cavalry as it was the debut of an additional hostage.

She expected Sherlock to answer with something sarcastic and cutting, but he was silent and pale, his eyes flickering between the puddle of clothes on the floor, the splattering of fluid, and Joan herself, looking vaguely horrified.

In other circumstances Joan might be embarrassed about the fact that she was naked from the waist down in the presence of a psychopathic hitman, but her shirt and jumper were baggy enough to cover her up somewhat, and she had bigger things on her mind.

"I'm in labour," she announced calmly, trying not to wheeze.

The contractions themselves were now close to a minute long, and judging by her progress so far, Joan estimated she was probably only half an hour away from giving birth.

"Unlock the handcuffs," she ordered.

Moran snorted. "Nice try, sweetheart – you think I'm falling for that one?"

Joan glared. "My contractions are six minutes apart and counting. _Unlock the fucking handcuffs!_"

"There's fluid on the floor!" Sherlock snapped, and there was on overtone of desperation to his voice as his gaze flickered between her and Moran's gun. "Use your eyes! Her water's broken, she needs to be able to move freely!"

Moran stared at her (Joan silently willing him to come over to unlock her and put himself in range of her scissors), then abruptly burst into laughter.

"Oh, this is priceless," he chortled. "This is so much better than what I'd planned."

He tossed something small and silvery to Sherlock. "You unlock her."

Sherlock darted across the room so quickly it looked like he'd teleported, and Joan realised his fingers were actually fumbling with the key as he opened the cuff.

The handcuffs had been police-issue – no little fuzzy pads like the ones the sex shops sold – and the skin on Joan's wrist was rubbed raw when the cuff came away. She felt Sherlock's fingers at the edge of her welts, heartbreakingly gentle, before she snatched her hand away and tried to rub some circulation back into it.

"Joan..." Sherlock began, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Just...get me up onto the exam table," she hissed.

"The exam table?"

"The floor's cold and sticky and my knees hurt," Joan snapped. "_Get me on the bloody table!_"

Her legs weren't feeling very steady at the moment, and Joan hated that she had to wrap her arms around Sherlock's neck and essentially let him pull her off the floor. She hated that his smell and the familiar feel of his angular body made her heart lurch. She hated that he could leave her to think he was dead for almost a year and then just walk in and touch her like he had any sort of right to it.

In short, Joan hated Sherlock for a lot of things right now, but none of them as important as the fact that Adriana would likely be coming into the world in this very room.

The padding on the exam table was a huge relief to Joan's knees, and as soon as she was settled on it, she shoved Sherlock away.

"Wash your hands!"

Surprisingly, he obeyed without question. Humiliatingly, Joan went to all fours without his support – there was no sink to grab onto to keep herself upright here – and the pain of relentless contractions meant that she felt exhausted even though she hadn't even started to push yet.

As before, she concentrated on her breathing, the rush of running water and the slick sound of squirting soap. She could hear Moran huffing with laughter from the corner, and Joan vowed that she'd make him bleed before this was over.

Hurried footsteps signalled Sherlock's return, and Joan had barely blinked before he was standing right in front of her, propping her up against him.

Joan let her forehead rest against his collarbone, deciding she'd save her energy for the birth and not argue or try to push him aside. She hated that his presence, his closeness, could still comfort her.

Sherlock's head ducked until his lips were resting near her ear, and Joan was tempted to shake him off until she realised he was talking to her, his voice so low Moran wouldn't be able to hear him.

"He told me he was planning to kill you in front of me," Sherlock whispered, and Joan despised the way the sliver of fear in his voice made her want to comfort him. "I don't know what he's planning now, though."

Joan could make a guess. Moran had planned to kill her in front of Sherlock, with the bonus that Adriana would die with her. But when he'd walked in to find her in labour...she suspected he thought it would be all the more poignant if he killed the newborn Adriana and _then_ killed Joan herself.

She looped her arm around Sherlock's neck, pressing her hand and wrist between his shoulder blades with just enough force for him to feel the outline of the scissors concealed in her sleeve. He went perfectly still for a moment, and she knew he'd understood.

Joan hated that they could do this – that they could fall back into their old patterns so easily.

Her body seized in another contraction. Joan's hand fisted in Sherlock's jacket – no billowing coat any more – and she ground her forehead into his shoulder, smearing sweat and tears on the fabric as hoarse, broken cries issued from her mouth.

One of Sherlock's hands was in her hair, cradling her head, while the other stroked random patterns over her back in long, soothing sweeps.

She hated that, too. Hated him for daring to pretend he cared for her, because if you cared for someone, there was no possible way you could let them go months thinking you were dead.

The pain eased, and her high, pained noises turned to heavy pants.

"Joan..." Sherlock murmured. "Joan, I-"

"_Shut up!_" she snarled. "Just shut up!"

"Oooh, trouble in paradise," Moran mocked. "What's the matter, Sherlock – your little fuck-toy not want you back?"

Joan rolled her eyes – Moran wouldn't be the first person to insinuate Sherlock thought of her as a living, breathing sex doll, and he wouldn't be the last. She'd learned to just shrug it off, and Sherlock had always just ignored them.

But to her surprise, Sherlock tensed, and his breath hissed between his teeth like a furious cobra. For a moment, it seemed as though Sherlock was actually about to attack Moran, so Joan did what she did best; stop the smartest man she'd ever known from making stupid decisions.

Her other arm wound around his neck as well and she clutched her to him, hoping that if she held him in place for a few moments he'd think better of it. With her hands resting on his back, she could feel his muscles bunch and tighten as though he were considering throwing her off...but in the next instant, he'd relaxed again, the impulsive fury having passed.

Something brushed the side of her head, a soft whisper of skin on skin, and it was already over before Joan realised Sherlock had hesitantly kissed her temple.

Joan wanted to punch him

xx

Joan had done her best not to scream, but as the contractions began to come two minutes apart and she was gripped with an urge to push, she lost that fight.

"Can you try to keep it down?" Moran drawled, sounding bored.

Out of breath and gasping, Joan tried to glare at him.

"Shut up!" Sherlock spat.

"You...need to..." Joan made a vague gesture with her hands and hoped Sherlock understood she needed him to put his hands between her legs and be ready to take the baby.

She was trying to breathe the way she'd been instructed to in those childbirth classes, but didn't think it was going too well.

Another contraction, one that she pushed with as she grit her teeth and buried the high-pitched noise that leaked from her lips in Sherlock's jacket. Then there were a few minutes of relief for Joan to pant and gasp through while steeling herself for the next contraction.

Contraction, push, wait for the next round. Contraction, push, wait for the next round.

Perhaps ten minutes into when she'd actually started pushing (and screaming, because without any sort of analgesic this was bloody painful!), Joan felt that _something_ was definitely happening. It felt weird and strange and she knew her eyes were widening and her breath was stuttering in her chest but something in her just knew that this was it...

Two contractions later, and Adriana slid from Joan's body into Sherlock's hands.

Joan had always thought newborn babies fairly ugly – red and crumpled-looking, covered in blood and fluid and mucus. It was a surprise to know how much of a difference it made when it was _her_ baby.

Her body was aching as though she'd just been run over, and though she should have been feeling utterly miserable she instead felt euphoric and powerful, as though she were on top of the world. She reached for her baby...

Only to notice Moran apparently had the same idea. He must have approached the (now rather soiled) exam table Joan was kneeling on while she and Sherlock were distracted, and now he was close enough to make a grab for Adriana.

Joan didn't even think about it.

"_Don't touch my baby!"_

Roused maternal instincts combined with her fury at being held hostage, and Joan had the scissors in her hand almost before she'd even realised it. Her arm came up and she dug the blades into the side of Moran's neck, opening his jugular vein and carotid artery with one blow.

Warm blood splattered across her jumper, arterial spray painting the beige fabric a bright red. Moran gurgled, one hand coming up automatically to clutching at his wound, desperately trying to keep it closed, while the other hand raised the gun. Sherlock twisted, as though trying to put his body between Joan and the weapon, but the pistol wasn't even pointing at them before Joan knocked it out of his hands with a shrewd blow to the wrist.

The gun hit the floor several feet away and discharged into the wall, but Joan wasn't paying any attention to it or to the man bleeding to death – all her focus was on her daughter.

Sherlock was still holding her, looking mildly terrified and slightly lost. The gunshot had prompted Adriana to cry, and Sherlock couldn't hold her to him because the umbilical cord was still attached.

Calmly, even though she felt more exhausted than she ever had before in her life, Joan pulled out two long threads from her jumper – it was write-off at this point, anyway. She used them to tie off the cord in preparation for it to be cut, then gathered Adriana into her arms.

As soon as she was holding her daughter, something in Joan eased. She lay back on the exam table, too weary to even care about the mess, or that she still had to go through placental expulsion. Adriana rested on her chest, squirming and waving her small arms as Joan stroked her back in an effort to comfort her.

It belatedly occurred to Joan that the room was probably cold for a newborn baby. "I need-"

The first two words were barely out of her mouth before Sherlock was tucking his scarf gently around Adriana, his face still frozen somewhere between 'utterly shocked' and 'in awe'.

Joan couldn't deny it wasn't gratifying to see that sort of expression on Sherlock's face for once.

Adriana was quieting, as though reassured by the feel of her mother's heartbeat beneath her cheek, though Joan thought it was possible her daughter was just as tired by the birth as she was.

For long moments, Joan just looked at her, taking in Adriana's tiny hands, curled into fists against her jumper, the unfocused eyes that were the pale blue most newborns possessed, the damp strands of inky-black hair that covered her head like a fine cloud...

But eventually, she raised her eyes to the man standing beside her.

"You, Sherlock, have a lot of explaining to do."

xx

Joan ended up having to stay in the hospital overnight. She'd passed the afterbirth without incident and given her statement to the police (fortunately, they weren't about to arrest her for killing the man holding her hostage when he was about to murder her baby), but the paramedics had still checked her out to ensure that she and Adriana weren't suffering any ill-effects from her rather stressful labour. Adriana was perfectly healthy, but Joan hadn't been able to drink anything during her labour, which meant she was rather dehydrated, and the paramedics had insisted on bringing her to the hospital.

So now Joan was sitting in a hospital bed, breastfeeding Adriana beneath a nursing blanket with an IV hooked into her hand and glaring up at Mycroft.

"I'm really working quite hard to suppress the urge to strangle you," she said, moderating her voice only for the sake of the baby in her arms.

Mycroft's face was unreadable, and Joan really hoped he'd stick around until after Adriana was finished breastfeeding, so she could get up off the bed and break his nose.

She didn't know where Sherlock was – probably trying to convince some overworked doctor he wasn't in shock – and she hated that his absence worried her. He'd put her through almost nine months of believing he was dead; if there was any kind of justice in the world, he'd have lost all right to make her worry over him.

"I did what I thought best at the time," Mycroft said, his voice level.

Joan took a deep breath to try to control herself. "Do you know what I went through, thinking Sherlock was dead?"

"I have an idea."

"No, I don't think you do!" She was trembling with the urge to shout at him, to hit him, to make him understand a fraction of the pain she'd endured. "Can you at least tell me why you thought that was necessary, or is that also something I'm not allowed to know?"

"We knew it was very likely Moran was watching you," Mycroft told her, and while his face was still unreadable it was no longer impassive – now, it was strangely intense. "I'm sure you can imagine what he would have done to you if he'd suspected you were in contact with Sherlock."

"There didn't have to be 'contact'!" Joan snarled. "He could have, oh, I don't know, not faked his death in the first place? He could have taken me with him, he could have..."

Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard. "He could have at least _told_ me."

Adriana, perhaps picking up on Joan's misery, began to whimper and fuss, threatening to cry.

"Shush, Addy," Joan whispered, rocking her daughter lightly in her arms. "It's all right, shhhhh, it's all right..."

Adriana began to mewl, then seemed to change her mind and began suckling again.

"Perhaps he could have," Mycroft conceded. "But Joan, try to bear this in mind – there are three things my brother loves; the sound of his violin, the puzzle of his cases, and your company. He did without all three to keep you safe."

Joan wondered if Adriana would fuss too much if she just put her down here and went for 'Uncle' Mycroft's throat. How could he stand there looking sanctimonious when he'd visited her god knew how many times and seen her grieving for a man that wasn't dead and never said a thing?

A thought suddenly struck her. "So is that why you visited me? Because of Moran?"

"Of course not," Mycroft said, and had the gall to look offended. "I visited you because my brother loves you and wants you safe. The fact that you were expecting my niece might also have had something to do with it."

But Joan barely heard him – she was on a roll. "Is that why he came back now? Because Adriana was coming and he felt some sort of ridiculous, old-fashioned responsibility because he'd knocked me up-"

"No!" Mycroft interrupted sharply. "Sherlock was unaware you were pregnant. I believed such knowledge would only distract him, perhaps prompt him to try to contact you and put you both in danger, so I chose not to tell him."

Joan opened her mouth.

"I assure you, whatever you have to say on the subject, my brother has already said. At considerable volume and interspersed with derogatory and entirely unnecessary comments."

Against her will, Joan felt her lips twitch. But as that faint spark of amusement derailed her anger, she was left with only a bone-deep weariness.

"Just go," she whispered, not looking at him. "Just...get out."

She was half-expecting Mycroft to ignore her, to continue trying to persuade her that he and Sherlock had done the right thing, but he obeyed her wishes and left the room.

Adriana stopped suckling a few minutes later, and Joan put her over her shoulder to be burped. She seemed amenable to a nap afterwards, and Joan privately wondered how long it would be until she was rocking her daughter in the early hours of the morning and pleading with her to go to sleep.

The door opened and Sherlock stepped in. Slightly hesitantly, though, as if he weren't entirely sure of his welcome.

In Joan's opinion, that was a very legitimate worry.

Sherlock was staring at her like she was a crime scene, like he needed to memorise every single detail to recollect later. Joan hated herself, just a little bit, for finding that comforting.

She still wanted to punch him.

"Your ruse worked, well done!" she hissed, trying not to wake Adriana. "And you can piss off and do me the favour of not gloating in a few minutes, once you've answered my question; what on earth was going through your head?"

Sherlock didn't bother asking what she was referring to. "I was thinking that I didn't want you to die."

"What are you talking about? The only reason Moran was after me was because he kept expecting you to come back for me."

Sherlock looked away, but Joan was in no mood for secrets, not now.

"Sherlock, what aren't you telling me?"

Sherlock still wouldn't meet her eyes. "Moriarty, at the cliff, before we...he told me they'd find you. He said if I ever went back to London the last of his organisation would find you and kill you and that they'd do it slowly, and that I'd watch every second of it."

Degenerating grammar had always been a sure sign Sherlock was distressed. Joan blinked, glancing down at Adriana as she absorbed that information. At first blush, it seemed like a rather pointless threat – Moriarty would still be dead, either way – but the vicious, needless spite in it was perfectly in keeping with the psychopath she had known.

Realising she was losing momentum, Joan surged onwards. "So instead you let me think you were dead? Christ, Sherlock, do you know what it was like to-?"

Adriana began to stir as her voice rose, and Joan broke off, taking a deep breath in an effort to stifle the urge to scream at him.

"Did you even care?" she whispered, not looking up from her daughter's sleeping face.

Because that was something she had to know, right here and now. She had to know if Sherlock had even given her the slightest consideration before he left her behind, in a move that was ostensibly to protect her but really just smacked of a lack of trust and respect.

"Of course I cared," Sherlock said, a level of frustration in his voice he usually only reached when dealing with Anderson. "How could I _not_? But I couldn't let..."

He broke off for a moment, and Joan looked up to find him eyeing her IV bag with far more loathing than any pack of fluid deserved.

"I calculated this as a possible outcome of my deception," he admitted quietly. "The most likely one, true, but I couldn't let that stop me. Even if you hated me, you'd be alive to do it."

There was another pause before he spoke again, sounding as close to contrite as Sherlock ever did. "Perhaps it could have been done better, but I couldn't see...there was nothing else that had such a high chance of your survival."

Joan wanted to be angry, and there was some corner of her heart that still was, and she knew it would be a while before she really trusted him again...but she could see that he was being honest. Sherlock hadn't done what he did out of an arrogant desire to break his connections so he could pursue the remnants of Moriarty's organisation to the ends of the earth; he'd faked his own death because he'd thought it would keep her safe. And he hadn't contacted her or informed her of the ruse for the same reason.

And now he was standing in her hospital room, very carefully not looking at her, and for all that his shoulders were thrown back and his posture was rigid, he seemed somehow smaller than she'd ever seen him.

In that moment, Joan realised that Sherlock honestly didn't expect her to take him back.

Sherlock had severed ties with almost everyone he'd ever known, had left behind everything he found familiar in an effort to keep her safe. And he didn't even expect forgiveness for it – he'd honestly thought it would end their relationship...and he'd still done it.

Of course, he'd messed it up fantastically, but he'd been _trying_ to do the right thing. And god help her, but Joan loved him.

"Do you make such a spectacular cock-up of all your relationships?" she asked. "Or am I just special?"

Sherlock's eyes jerked up to meet hers, apparently hearing the semi-acceptance and attempted forgiveness in her tone (she hadn't forgiven him yet, but she was willing to try). He blinked, looking slightly confused, as though this was one outcome he hadn't quite counted on.

"And Sherlock?" In an instant, Joan's tone turned deadly serious. "If you ever do something like that again without consulting me, you'll regret it – if I cared about being safe, I'd never have moved in with you."

Which might have been a bit brutal, but it was the truth.

Sherlock still resembled a spooked rabbit, which – aside from making her wish for a camera – made Joan want to somehow wipe the vaguely distressed expression of his face.

"Oh, come here," she muttered.

Sherlock approached slowly, as though he still didn't quite believe this was allowed. Joan seized hold of his hand when he was close enough and Sherlock intertwined their fingers, seeming almost wistful, before glancing curiously down at Adriana.

Joan could admit their daughter was much more appealing now that she'd been washed, and she rather liked that there seemed to be a few wispy curls in the now-dry black hair.

"What's her name?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Adriana Joanne Watson." Joan's threat to call her 'Sherlockina' had ultimately been an empty one.

"Adriana..." Sherlock repeated absently, still staring down at their daughter.

"I'm calling her Addy at the moment," Joan admitted. "Adriana seems like too much of a mouthful for a baby."

Sherlock nodded, and Joan couldn't help wondering what happened now. She'd decided to have the baby in part because it looked like her days of chasing criminals and shooting at suspects were behind her – she couldn't rush out the door after Sherlock every single time if there was a newborn in the flat.

For that matter, what did Sherlock think of all this? He seemed slightly stunned, but Joan assumed that was a normal reaction to being suddenly made a father (though Sherlock would bridle at the suggestion that he'd ever been _normal_). Babies had never made any appearance in their future plans, and a child was certainly going to upset the comfortable equilibrium they'd once had.

"Can I hold her?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

A little surprised – she hadn't expected him to express much interest in Adriana – Joan handed the baby over, gently directing Sherlock in supporting her head and bottom.

Some part of her had anticipated seeing detached curiosity on his face, had thought he'd survey the baby as though it was one of his experiments, noting what features Adriana took from him and what features she took from Joan. But instead he was smiling faintly, looking as pleased as if Joan had just praised him for a deduction.

"Never took you for the fatherly type," Joan said in a subtle pull for more information – she'd learned not to let herself wonder with Sherlock.

"I didn't like the idea at first," he admitted.

"Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'd have to share you."

Somehow that was so typically Sherlock all Joan could do was roll her eyes and try to stifle her laughter.

"So what changed your mind?" she couldn't help asking.

"She looks like you."

Joan grinned, feeling a little bubble of warmth settled somewhere behind her ribs. "How can you tell?"

"I've trained myself to see past the superficial," he said, his voice taking on the lofty tone it always held when he was explaining his deductions. "And beneath the baby fat, it's quite obvious. The cheeks, the chin, the nose, the whole shape of her face...it's _you_."

Sherlock had said 'you' in same way someone else would have said 'beautiful', and Joan thought that in this case, they meant the same thing.

For several moments Joan didn't say anything, just drinking in the sight of Sherlock holding Adriana.

It was something she'd never thought she'd see, and she was still a little bitter about that.

"We should probably get married," Sherlock announced.

"_What?_" Joan exclaimed. Then, hastily moderating her voice, "Why?"

Unlike Harry, Joan had never felt any particular desire to get married; to be perfectly honest, she'd never cared one way or the other. At first she thought Sherlock was making the offer because of Adriana, then she reminded herself that this was _Sherlock_, who had never conformed to society's expectations in his life and wasn't about to start now.

"The doctors wouldn't discuss your case," Sherlock said eventually. "If we were married, it would be much easier."

Joan giggled – she couldn't help it. It was the least romantic proposal ever, and yet it suited them down to the ground.

"I'll think about it," she answered. "But if we do get married, there'll be no fancy ceremony. We go into the registry office, do whatever legal shenanigans are needed, and that's it."

xx

"I pointed out all the evidence, I described exactly how the murder took place, and practically handed your suspect to you – what went wrong _this_ time?"

Joan did her best to hide a smile. Lestrade had come over due to some problem with the latest case, and she was sure Sherlock was trying to be as grand and commanding as he usually was, but it didn't quite work when he was holding a sleeping four month old baby against his shoulder.

Sherlock had said Adriana had just wanted to be held for a little while, and he'd been right. He'd apparently made some sort of study of the pitch and tone of Adriana's crying and her body language when she did so, which meant he had a relatively good success rate at knowing what their daughter wanted when she started to wail. Joan might have resented his ease with her if it wasn't just so _useful_.

They were married now – Joan had given in two weeks ago. Largely because Sherlock's methods of persuading her had been something along the lines of a ten year old trying to wheedle some sort of concession in an argument, and it had been bizarrely adorable.

"_Joan, do you think I should clean out the fridge?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Do you think I should do the washing-up?"_

"_Yes."_

"_And after I'm finished with that, do you think I should take you into the bedroom and see if I can get you to orgasm with only my mouth?"_

"_YES!"_

"_Do you think we should get married?"_

"_Nice try, Sherlock, but after living with you for all this time, I've learned to really listen to what you're asking me before I answer."_

Nothing had really changed, of course, which was part of the reason why Joan had never been particularly fussed about getting married in the first place. Nothing had changed with their involvement or commitment or anything else that marriage was supposed to represent, but now they had a joint back account and automatic access to each other's hospital rooms.

And Joan had kept her maiden name, of course – she'd been Dr. Watson for too long to bother changing it now.

While they were at the registry office, she'd wondered if Sherlock would want Adriana's last name changed to Holmes, but he'd dismissed the idea.

"_She's better off as a Watson – I tend to like Watson's more than I like Holmes'."_

_Joan decided to take that as a version of _'I like that she has your name, darling'_, because that was essentially what it meant. She was feeling slightly more benevolent towards Mycroft (though still a little pissed off he'd never told Sherlock she was pregnant), and couldn't resist taking a poke at Sherlock._

"_You love your brother, really."_

"_Doesn't mean I have to like him," Sherlock muttered._

Joan would have been happy with the legal papers and nothing else, but strangely it was Sherlock who had insisted on a pair of rings. Nothing sparkly or ostentatious, of course, just a pair of plain silver-looking bands that Joan had only later found out were actually white gold.

"_We need evidence," Sherlock insisted._

"_Maybe so, but if we wear them long enough, we'll get tan lines. Won't that screw up a disguise if you need to play a single guy or something?"_

"_I'm perfectly capable of working around that."_

The rings had given Anderson and Donovan a bit of a turn when they first saw them, and after two weeks Joan was getting used to the feel of it on her finger.

Occasionally, though, it still seemed a little surreal. Seemed strange to look around the baby-proofed flat and see soft, plastic nubs over the corners of tables and counters, to have a playpen in the living room.

The cot had been moved into what used to be Sherlock's room, largely so Adriana's cries were less likely to disturb her mother. Joan was sure she got a much better night's sleep than most new mothers, largely due to Sherlock's own bizarre sleeping habits – he only woke her up when Adriana was hungry and needed to be breastfed. If she needed to be changed or was just fussy, he simply dealt with it himself.

If someone had told her a year ago that she and Sherlock would end up married with a baby, she would have laughed them out of the room.


	3. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Mummy?"

Joan hummed in acknowledgement, not looking away from her task – combing Adriana's wildly-curling hair into a ponytail.

Sherlock's prediction had been far more accurate than Joan would ever have thought. Aside from the dark, curly hair and the hazel eyes that were closer to Sherlock's blue-green-grey than Joan's brownish-green, Adriana looked almost exactly the way Joan had at her age. Though Joan did suspect her daughter would eventually be taller than her, in spite of the fact Adriana had inherited Joan's stocky body rather her father's more slender build.

"Why's the sky blue? I asked Daddy but he said he'd deleted it."

Joan was pretty sure she knew this. "Light refracts, Addy, and-"

"What does 'refrects' mean?"

"It's _'refracts'_, and that means it bends-"

"How?"

Like most six year olds, Adriana was endlessly curious, and it was only exacerbated by the fact that she saw Sherlock constantly performing experiments about the flat. Most questions posed to her father, from _'what does chalk taste like?'_ to _'do snakes blink?'_ were answered with _'let's find out'_, and on the rare occasion when Adriana was curious about a subject Sherlock had deemed unimportant, his staple response was _'I've deleted it – ask your mother'_.

"Tell you what," Joan began, striking a compromise. "After school, I'll hunt up Daddy's prism and show you how light refracts, how's that?"

Adriana stuck out her lip in a pout. "Why not now?"

"Because now you have to go to school," Sherlock broke in, coming in from the kitchen with a packed bag. "And you will, as soon as Joan's finished."

Joan used a bright blue elastic band to secure Adriana's hair, tugging gently to ensure it settled without pain.

"There we are!" she declared, brushing a quick kiss over her daughter's temple. "Now off you go."

"Thanks, Mummy, bye, Mummy!" Adriana half-yelled as she grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand and pulled him out the door.

Joan took Adriana to school on Thursdays and Tuesdays – those days when she wasn't scheduled at the clinic – while Sherlock took her on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, so Joan had the rest of the morning to get ready for work.

Of course, she and Sherlock still went careening down the streets of London now and then, with Sarah or Mrs. Hudson or even Mycroft serving as a babysitter, but in general it was all very frighteningly domestic. Joan had never pictured anything like this when she went into medical school, and now...this was her life.

And god help her, but she wouldn't trade it for the world.

xx

_AN: Thanks so much to ginbitch, who beta-d this monster for me!_


End file.
